


Like An Alley Cat In A Tuba

by Iwantthatcoat



Series: So You Thought That "Forgive Me, Benedict" Was Offensive? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crack Fic, Honestly this is tough to tag accurately, Implied Holmescest, M/M, Mention of past non-con with an amorous tentacle monster, Off-Stage/Implied Dub-Con, Off-Stage/Implied Incest, Should I have feels if it's crack?, a bit of Suzuki violin, but maybe a bit angsty for crack, fandom injokes, let's call it dark humour, or just dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:12:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Mycroft, having anticipated this turn of events long ago, has already contacted the interested parties. Lestrade segments the footage into clips (this takes some time-- he's not particularly good at his division) and sends off a small sample.</i><br/>Sally responds first: <b>You’re sure there are no dinosaurs in this? Because I’ve had it with the dinosaurs, and if this tentacle thing ends up looking anything at all like some tentacle-dinosaur I want a bloody refund.</b></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Not exactly a jaguar in a cello....this is continuation of "Where It's Always $18.95". Crack, but kinda dark (angsty) for crack, I think? Lots of fanon references in this and in "$18.95". If I miss something, please let me know and I will probably go back and add it in there somewhere.<br/>We left Sherlock alone with TentacleMonster!Moran as Moriarty!John went to do some much needed drycleaning. Sherlock is rescued by Mycroft and Lestrade, who have ... plans. (Warning: this ends on a sad note- read Tea Porn after to feel happy again!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like An Alley Cat In A Tuba

“Now?”

“Just a bit longer. We want to ensure his gratitude.”

“Really, My. I think we have enough footage, and he is starting to yowl like an alley cat in a tuba.”

“Yes, the acoustics in the pool are rather exceptional.”

“And he’s your brother, after all.”

“Yes… indeed,” Mycroft says with a sly smile and a hesitation that sounds like delayed gratification. “Well, I suppose we had better save him now.”

“I still can’t believe you were right about John,” Lestrade says. “He sure had me fooled. That man deserves a fuckin’ BAFTA. Let’s move!”

 

***

 

Mycroft, having anticipated this turn of events long ago, has already contacted the interested parties. Lestrade segments the footage into clips (this takes some time-- he's not particularly good at his division) and sends off a small sample.

Sally responds first:

 

_You’re sure there are no dinosaurs in this? Because I’ve had it with the dinosaurs, and if this tentacle thing ends up looking anything at all like some tentacle-dinosaur I want a bloody refund._

No dinosaurs. Just a torturous struggle.

_I don’t care if it’s torturous or sheer bliss. I just want to see that fine arse naked._

Oh yes, he’s very naked. Bidding starts at 20, yeah?

_Well, count me in._

 

 

 

Molly's arrives a little later:

 

 

_There’s more of this?_

Much more. Plenty of nudity.

_But pain, right? That wanker isn’t enjoying himself in it, is he?_

Oh, no. Most definitely not.

_Good. Whatever the bid is, double it._

 

 

***

 

 

“You and Greg?” Sherlock is genuinely surprised. He’d been more than a little off his game lately, what with his best friend turning out to be his mortal enemy and the bout with an amorous bonafide tentacle monster. "I thought you were sleeping with… whatever her name is. Surely, it isn’t really Anthea?”

“Her name is Tootie.”

“What?!?”

“I distinctly remember you having this very same conversation about not repeating oneself with John,” Mycroft checks his watch, “56 minutes ago.”

“You were... present during that conversation?” Sherlock asks. This is more than a bit not good.

“Yes, Greg and I both were.”

He swallows hard.

“Her real name... is Tootie, _Sherrr-lock_ ,” he says. Okay. Point taken. “And I like a little variety. As does Greg. "

Sherlock is about to leave them to their fun, when Mycroft speaks. "We have a special evening planned. I could easily afford both the rent boy and the rent, but Greg is interested in you." Greg blushes. "And I… well, we needn’t concern ourselves with social mores, surely we're above such things. It would indeed be rather fascinating to be able to… deduce one’s needs… don’t you think? I much prefer coercion to force, and free will to coercion.”

Sherlock shoots him a silent glare which speaks volumes.

“Ah, you’re right who am I kidding? Coercion _is_ more fun. See what I mean? You know me _so well,_ ” the smile is both menacing and affectionate. Menafectionate. “I have to hand it to Greg, it never would have occurred to me if he hadn’t insisted sandwiches are better than cake,” he says with another predatory grin. “He's got quite a collection of footage of you on his phone, and I’ve become quite the video producer as of late. Perhaps I could take this off the auction block,” he says, holding up a mobile. “And there’s that small matter of your timely rescue. Well… almost timely.”

Definately more than a bit not good. Sherlock weighs his options.

 

***

 

Later that evening, a black car stops in front of 221B Baker Street and a tall, slightly disheveled man in a black coat and blue scarf staggers out.

****

Sherlock wills himself up the 17 steps... 19 if you count the front stoop. Or had he already counted the front stoop when he originally came up with 17? He doesn't even know anymore. He reflexively seeks out the solace of his violin. “A-2-2 … 3-1-1 …” he recites aloud, as he plays a heartbreaking rendition of “Lightly Row.”

 

At the song’s conclusion, he is tempted to toss the instrument on the couch in a fit of pique, but instead, gently wipes the rosin off the strings with a soft flannel cloth and loosens the bow, turning the endscrew (or button) counter-clockwise until the frog slides toward the leather thumb grip and silvery lapping (or wrap). The ferrule and shimmering mother-of-pearl pastille (or eye) slide as the Mongolian horsehair’s tension is released from its Brazilian handcrafted Pernambuco stick. He certainly doesn't touch the bow hairs with the oils (and remnants of chlorine) on his fingers. He anchors the bow in the top of the case with the clip, gently places the violin in its cradle, closes it and latches it before he places the case flat on the ground. The quiet of the flat is jarring.

He somehow manages to change into his blue silk dressing gown, pajama bottoms and an old comfy t-shirt and to grab a 1,000 thread-count Supima Cotton sheet from off his bed before curling up fetal on the couch and staring at John's empty chair.

John is gone.

The John he thought he knew never existed.

The cupboard remains well-stocked with jam, this he knows... but who will go get the milk now? His body convulses in sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork:Drawbadsherlock


End file.
